Dyke said no more, but held on tightly to the end of the net, helping his brother to keep their horses a sufficient distance apart, so that the egg purse might keep well off the ground, and not be shaken too much by the horses’ gentle pace.
“Wonder what the young birds think of their ride,” said Dyke merrily. “We shall have one of them chipping an egg presently, and poking out his head to see what’s the matter, and why things are getting so cold.”
“Cold, in this scorching sun!” said Emson; “why it would hatch them out. Hold tight.”
“Right it is!” cried Dyke in seafaring style. “I say, what a smash it would be if I let go!”
“Ah, it would,” said Emson; “but you won’t. Cry stop when you’re tired, and we’ll change hands.—Steady, boy!” he continued to his horse, which seemed disposed to increase its speed, and they jogged gently along again.
“I always used to read that the ostriches did lay their eggs in the sand and leave them for the sun to hatch.”
“There is some truth in it,” said Emson; “but the old writers didn’t get to the bottom of it. The sun would hatch them if it kept on shining, but the cold nights would chill the eggs and undo all the day’s work. It’s of a night that the birds sit closest.—Like to change now?”
“Yes: they are getting heavy for one’s wrist,” said Dyke; and the great purse was lowered to the ground, the eggs clicking together as if made of china. Then the brothers changed places and hands; raised the net; the horses hung apart again, and the slow journey was resumed.
“Gently!” cried Dyke before they had gone very far. “If you hang away so hard, I shall be dragged out of the saddle.”
The tension was relaxed, and they went on again riding by slow degrees back to Kopfontein, which they finally reached with their heavy and fragile load intact.